Don't Fear The Reaper
by Hannaadi88
Summary: "Angleterre, you make moi ill. You will be the death of me," France proclaimed finally, "-if I do not get rid of you first." -Dedicated to Caty-Cross-


-Don't Fear The Reaper-

_Dedicated to Caty-Cross. Happy Birthday, dahling ;D_

* * *

A loud knock on the door stirred the resting Englishman from his sleep. Grumbling as he sat up on the couch, a book he had been previously reading before he 'just closed his eyes' fell from his lap. It had been a cheesy love story- forbidden affections that evolved to true love that ended in marriage. Tacky, but nevertheless a book one could devour without stopping for a break. Arthur really had no clue why he had even bought the excuse for literature in the first place. Shakespeare was much more original- forbidden love that ended in tragedy.

At the moment, though, Arthur Kirkland was not interested in a bad ending. He wanted to find love and grow old with his partner. Snorting at the passing thought, the Brit picked the book up from the ground and placed it on his coffee table. England stood up and ran his fingers through his hair sleepily and sighed.

He may as well give up on his childish fancies of a perfect, normal life. He was not free to make his own choices in love and simply live them out. He was a nation- a proud one, at that- and he could not throw his affections at just anyone. Nor could he stay constant to the lucky gall (or guy), as his destiny was controlled not by fate, but by his people.

_Besides,_ he thought darkly, _there isn't much of a variety, anyway. _

A country could only be compatible with a fellow country, after all. And there were only so many nations to choose from. Falling in love with a human was a grave mistake as well as offense. Not many have done so, as far as he knew, and one of the only ones Arthur knew of to have had a deep affection for a mere mortal still grieved for his lost partner.

A partner that he, England, had taken away from him.

Shaking his head to relieve him from the troubling reflections, Arthur walked towards the door. He had left his potential guest waiting long enough and would have to apologize courteously like the gentleman he was. That wouldn't be a problem though, he thought dryly. He had made enough mistakes in his life to have a complete apology speech memorized. The first words of 'profound regret' already set in his mind, Arthur opened the door.

All words eluded him in a moment. This was the one person he should not bother acknowledging, much the less apologize to. "What do you want?" England asked in a bored tone.

"_Bonsoir_ to you as well, _Angleterre_." The Frenchman stood in the doorway, starting to shrug off his coat and waited to be invited in. When no such invitation came, he sighed in mild frustration and asked to be allowed to enter. "May I come in?"

England shook his head with a smug smile as he leaned against the door-frame. "Now why would you want to do that?" It was at times like this when the Englishman would think that arguing with Francis was the only thing he lived for, that playful hatred was what kept him going day by day. Surely not his love life. The lack of it, that is.

Instead of smirking as he usually would and coming up with a nasty comment (sexual or hateful- coming from the Frenchman, there wasn't much of a difference), Francis simply narrowed his eyes. "I have something important to discuss with you, _mon cher,_ and it would benefit you if I did not have to say it on your doorstep."

Something in the tone the Frenchman used while saying '_mon cher_' sent a chill up Arthur's spine. It was not the usual, playful voice he was used to hearing and rejecting- it was a cold, lifeless tone. He could have delivered a death notice with that tone. Large brows furring slightly, the Englishman huffed at the dramatic notion and moved aside a bit to let his guest go in. It was a big enough entrance, apparently, as Francis walked in without sparing his host a second glance.

Closing the door behind him, England turned around to face the uncomfortable silence. Francis was standing next to a painting of a smiling Churchill, arm around Arthur's shoulder. The Frenchman seemed to be studying the Englishman's expression. A few moments later, he turned towards his, still awkwardly standing, host. "He was a great man, _non_?"

Arthur blinked. Was Francis admitting that _his_ leader, England's salvation during the Second World War and present during the first, was acceptable in his eyes? Something about his voice, he noticed once again, was unreadable. France's expression was solemn, and uncharacteristically serious. The Englishman did not know if his guest was seriously paying him a compliment and he should acknowledge Francis for it or if the Frenchman was mocking him, which would earn him a bloody nose. England decided to go with the former.

"Ah, yes, he was," his tone turned passionate. "One of the best leaders I've ever had. In fact, one of the best the bloody world has ever had." The moment of pride past, one to be replaced with a concerned glance towards the Frenchman. "What makes you say that, though? Not that you are wrong, that is." England hastily corrected himself.

A familiar smirk crept into Francis' features. "His finest moment was during world war one when he had all those soldiers invade Turkey, _non_? The Gallipoli campaign. . . Too bad it failed. . ."

England gaped at the Frenchman. _I should have known. . ._ Instead of replying with a snide comment, as he usually would have done, the Brit resorted to simply glaring at his guest and taking a seat on his previously abandoned couch. After a short glance towards France's direction, Arthur picked up the book from his coffee table and embedded himself deeply in the plot, making it a point to ignore the other.

Wrong move.

Francis was in no mood for a childish game involving insults and, if it went his way, hate sex. He was tired of being ignored as well. After all those years. . . it was time to set things right. Permanently.

A soft growl making it's way through French lips, France seated himself on England's lap, straddling him. The book was roughly torn out of the other's grip, palms now pinned to his sides by Francis' own hands. Arthur's muscles tensed as he was preparing to release himself of the sudden weight. But when he tried to move, his captor firmly pushed him down, yet again. He shivered as the Frenchman leaned in, preparing himself to reject the kiss. Shutting his eyes tightly, England counted under his breath the seconds before he would have to unwillingly come into contact with one of his least favorite people.

But no kiss came. England was about to release a relieved sigh when he heard the French words, whispered seductively in his ear with a warm breath caressing his earlobe. "_Vous me baiser volontiers_."

Arthur glared at the Frenchman, eyes narrowing. "The day I kiss you willingly, frog, will be my last." He spat out the words, meaning for each one to spread like venom through the other's body. Perhaps then he would leave him alone and heal himself with a different nation. Anyone but him.

His words seemed to have the desired impact, surprisingly. No expected retaliation came. Instead, France's hold weakened as he winced in pain. He pulled back and looked dully at the Englishman. "_Pourquoi_?" he asked softly. Before England was able to comprehend the dramatic change of mood or compose an answer, Francis had stood up angrily. He walked towards the hanging photo he had observed before, crossing his hands over his chest. "Why, _Angleterre_? Why must you say things like that?" the question came out in a mournful tone. Was it their relationship he was grieving?

England stood up as well, face flushed. What was it with the Frenchman tonight? He approached Francis and tried to stay composed. It would not do him any good to slip up, and he was not sure his body could handle yet another escapade. Yes- he should handle this coolly. He will not let any emotion become visible, hatred included.

"Because it's the truth, Francis." He stated simply. What else was there to say?

The answer did not satisfy the Frenchman, apparently. Before England could move, Francis had pulled him closer and pushed him against the wall, pinning both English arms above his head with one French hand. Arthur stared in surprise, and then horror as France pulled out a silver gun from his pocket, placing it against England's temple.

It was time for Arthur to ask the questions. "W-what?"

Francis laughed meanly, not withdrawing the weapon. "You tell me what, _mon ami_." Arthur simply shook his head, heart beating painfully against his chest. He closed his eyes and tried to calm himself. "Why, then?" he asked softly.

No response. The Englishman tried again. "Why are you doing this, Francis? What have I done to you?" the moment the words left his mouth, he immediately regretted saying them. France had enough reasons to want to get rid of his arch nemesis to have had killed him decades ago. It was a miracle he was still there, he realized with a groan.

"Think, _Angleterre_. Think. What could have the United Kingdom Of Great Britain And Northern Ireland done to me over the years?" Frances replied sarcastically.

Pictures of French soldiers lying dead at his feet swirled through the Kingdom's mind. Images of a heartbroken France staring silently at him from afar or screaming at him up close. Normal events in a nation's life, none worthy enough of a country's death.

England shook his head. "What I have done was nothing out of the ordinary, France. All of us suffer at the hand of others- that's nothing new." He explained patiently. At that, France bit his lip.

"Nothing out of the ordinary? Arthur," he finally addressed the nation with his own name, "you have cursed _moi_." Silence. Arthur, weary of the gun that was still pointed at him blinked in confusion. "I have. . . cursed you?"

Francis let out an exasperated sigh. "_Oui_, you have cursed _moi_. From the moment I saw you I have dreamed about you, _Angleterre_. Every day you are in my mind. Sometimes I am filled with thoughts of hatred, some of lust. Some, I am ashamed now to say, were filled with love. In short, _mon cher_, you have taken complete control over my life." England's eyes widened and opened his mouth to comment, but the Frenchman cut in.

"And no matter what I do or say, all I get from you is that cold, hateful attitude. You have brought me nothing but grief." Francis' eyes stung with tears that he refused to let out. England taking away a crying Matthew, England making out with Alfred shamelessly, England staring at him with cold eyes, informing him that he deserved all of the misery he had suffered by English hands and others. . .the memories swirled through his minds, one worse than the other. It all clicked.

"_Angleterre_, you make _moi_ ill. You will be the death of me," France proclaimed finally, "-if I do not get rid of you first." His grasp around the metal object in his hand tightened.

Sweat trickled town England's spine while he felt his mouth dry completely. What was he supposed to say to that? France's confession wasn't the first of it's kind- oh, there have been plenty of those. And depending on the timing, Arthur's responses would vary from passionate kisses to stinging slaps.

But this time, it was different. Never before had his life been threatened in such a manner while being confessed to. On one hand, he understood the desperation on France's behalf. The Englishman wouldn't be truthful if he claimed that he held no feelings whatsoever for the nation in front of him. And yet, it just did not click.

How could he make Francis understand that?

England had to buy some time before he would be able to confront the Frenchman on that particular subject. "But. . ." he licked his dry lips, trying to prevent his voice from cracking. "Nations cannot die."

A dry chuckle was the Frenchman's response. "Then how do you explain the disappearance of _L'Empire romain_? He simply went on a vacation, _oui_?" he offered sarcastically, a smirk twisting his lips. Francis let go of Arthur's hands, instead using his now free palm to help support the gun. Two hands on the polished steel, pistol tracing down England's chest, stopping just above his heart. He raised a manicured eyebrow, eying the Englishman.

"Still sure about not dieing, _mon amour_?"

Arthur gulped, his arms hanging useless at his sides. But something told him that resisting with his newly found freedom would be a futile move. All blood had vanished from his face, leaving him paler than before. No, he was not sure. He was not sure that he would remain unscathed after the other would pull the trigger. "W-what are you getting at, git?" he mentally slapped himself for being rude. This was not the time to play games, especially ones that involved insulting the other.

He couldn't really believe that he had been placed in such a position. Just a few decades ago, he would have had no problem fending off the Frenchman. What had happened to him?

"What do I want? I want you, _Angleterre_," Francis purred, leaning forward so that his lips almost grazed the other's, "but you do not want _moi_, do you?" a faint click was heard in the now-silent room. Another sound like that would spell the Englishman's death.

Mind racing, Arthur played his last card.

Meeting the French lips, he leaned into the kiss, pleading his cause with his tongue. Francis froze, surprised by the other's advances. England took advantage of the pause and stepped forward, wrapping his arms around Francis' figure. The gun was still pushed against his chest, a painful reminder to what may happen. "_The day I kiss you willingly, frog, will be my last."_ His previous words haunted him in the back of his mind. A slight shiver shook his spine.

Francis closed his eyes and sighed into the kiss, his grip on the gun left slack. The metal fell to the floor, clanging on the wooden surface.

Arthur could almost weep in relief. The danger was gone- for now. He had to somehow keep it that way, at least long enough for him to get his own ammunition. Francis moaned as the Englishman's lips traveled southward, now nipping the delicate skin of his throat. Instead of concentrating on his seducing, Arthur's mind buzzed, trying to remember where he had placed his revolver.

_It should be on the mantle. . ._

Returning to France's lips, the Englishman pushed the other backwards across the room, feigning passion. When Francis' back hit the mantle above the fireplace, Arthur scanned the surface, his eyes landing on the gleaming metal. Growling, he lifted his arm and reached forward, trying to grab the gun.

His hand curling around the cool substance, the Island nation pulled away from the Frenchman, stepping back. With the back of the other hand he wiped his lips. The other's expression turned from surprise to hurt to calm as his gaze fell on the gun in Arthur's hand.

"What are you going to do with that?"

At the question, Arthur snapped. "Dammit, Francis! You cannot force someone to love you by pointing a gun at them! What did you bloody think was going to happen, hm? How the hell could you even imagine us having a healthy relationship, based on fear? Answer me, Francis, 'cause god knows I don't have the answer."

He had not even cared when he used American slang- he was too busy putting his thoughts to words. Panting a bit after his outburst, his arm started to shake. A tear beaded in his eye. "I-I don't hate you. . . But you have to understand that love can't cure everything, Francis. Not a broken heart, not a cursed life. I am sorry if I had hurt you, but. . ." he met Francis' gaze, "You hurt me too. And I don't want to be hurt again, Francis."

Unmoved by the other's outburst, Francis looked from the gun to Arthur and back. "So," his voice remaining as emotionless as his expression, "You are going to shoot _moi_?"

Shaking his head, Arthur fell to his knees, his hand loosening it's hold on the machinery. "No, you git. . . how can I kill someone I care about?" he whispered, more to himself than to anyone else. His tears started to fall silently on his cheeks, leaving a slim, wet trail in their leave.

Francis felt shaken. It was as if he had just woken up from a nightmare in which he was the predator. Shaking his head to clear his mind, he crouched down next to the Englishman, hesitantly placing a comforting hand on the small of his back. "_Je suis désolé, Arthur. Je suis tellement désolé. Je ne te mérite pas_. . ."

At that, Arthur looked up, noticing the crack in the other's voice. His glance proved that the Frenchman was, indeed, crying.

_Oh, this is so messed up. . ._

It was now Arthur that wrapped his arms around the French nation in comfort, murmuring words of encouragement to his potential killer. But that was how things worked when you were a country- one moment you could be fighting for your life, the next concentrating on reviving your enemy. They never would be like Romeo and Juliet. The history they shared was too intense and complicated for a doomed romance.

Then again, it was their history that drew them to each other and their love of hate that kept them going. And it will be their dependence on the other that would unite them, someday. Somehow.

* * *

_Hanna Chan's Blah-Blah Corner,_

_First off, as I said in the beginning- this fic is dedicated to Caty-Cross for her B-day today! Of course, the gal is lucky enough to share that special date with Canada, if any of you have noticed ;P Unfortunately, my portrayal of the Canadian nation is not good enough for me to write a gift for someone, so that crosses out the amazing possibility of awarding both Canada and Caty with a joint fic ;A;_

_FrUk may not be your cup of tea, Caty, but you did like the part I showed you. And without your little encouragement, I don't think I would have come to finish this, so this fic in a way does belong to you. I hope you do like it somewhat, though ^^'_

_Now, aside from the birthday business. I totally ship FrUk, but I had to feed my angst lust, you see. So as much as I love those two together, I felt that I needed to show the darker side of their relationship. _

_In any case, I hope you enjoyed! Please review if you liked this somewhat ^^_

_-Hanna_


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